


i found a burning rose

by hamartiaaaa



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Time Jumping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamartiaaaa/pseuds/hamartiaaaa
Summary: — it’s something like knowing someone else’s body better than you know your own.(( updated ))
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from little pistols by mother mother

Tooru is taller than him now, but he’s always been stronger. It’s almost a comfort to twist his fists into the boy’s shirt and tear him down from his perch, that god-complex bullshit— there’s some sick pleasure in the sight of crimson dribbling toward his porcelain chin, even if at the same time his own head throbs in sympathy. He’s an ugly crier, always has been, and Hajime cups his face none-too-gently; and they almost sway, and he thumbs at the stream of blood that’s already slowing, even if all it does is make a bigger mess when it smears. Tooru’s hand comes up to encircle his wrist and every point of contact is charged. It’s something like knowing someone else’s body better than you know your own. It’s almost mind numbing; the flex of unfamiliar ( yet more familiar than anything he can put his tongue to ) muscles beneath his own steady palm, the way they contract and release the way he knows they should— and the way he isn’t abashed when Tooru tilts his head back onto his shoulder with a satisfied groan at his practiced release ( but also the way his stomach churns when he finds himself too preoccupied to offer it, or when someone else steps up to the plate because he _knows_ he can do better ).

They kissed once ( and again, once after ), when they were kids ( they're still no better than kids, he thinks, even though now they're technically men, but now he almost fumbles as he takes off his shirt when he catches a glimpse of the muscles working beneath the skin of Tooru's back in the locker room; and he wonders when he'd grown without him noticing ), so he knows the feel of his mouth as well as he knows everything else. Knows the feel of their bodies slotted together on his ( their ) bed while they watch The X-Files and Star Trek for the upteenth time, with their legs tangled together and his arm snug around the other's shoulders. Knows the feel of his thighs ( and calves and shoulders ) under his hands as he works through the knots in the muscle after a particularly grueling session.

Girls fawn over Tooru like he's some mythical being, slyly feeling up his bicep with their dainty hands ( brushing their fingers with his across the table during lunch, kissing little love notes with glossy, painted lips and tucking them between his books with a giggle )-- and they fawn over him, too, sometimes, but he rarely pays them any mind aside from the courtesy of turning them down. He'd never have time, anyhow, between babysitting his ( best ) friend, school and volleyball. Tooru's too busy basking in the attention to turn anyone down outright; he enjoys being fawned over as much as the thought of being above everyone else.

"A picture? Sure--"

Hajime serves.

" _Gah_ \--"

The ball, upon its return, is a familiar weight against his palm.

"Oikawa-san?"

"Not even the coach hits me-- _oh,_ " Tooru blanches at the sight of him.

"Huh," he grunts, and Tooru turns back, almost reluctantly, hand raised.

"Sorry," he wheezes. "Let's do pictures another time."

Hajime wonders, belatedly, what his face looks like; from the faces of his friend's admirers he must look terrifying, or at the very least intimidating. He wonders why Tooru and his inane antics rub him so wrong sometimes. They've spent so long together that breathing the same air shouldn't be as much of a hardship as it feels right then-- and he wonders, then, how it dissipates so suddenly ( how easily he forgives, even though he has no clue what he was holding against him ) when he feels the other's hand clap against his shoulder and linger on their walk back.

Tooru leans in as they stand together, hand still clasped firmly in place, and Hajime lilts his head as his breath fans the shell of his ear.

"Iwa-chan," the setter drawls. "Are you nervous?"

He huffs. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Are you a little bit sure," Tooru laughs, "or are you a lot a bit sure?"

"That doesn't make sense," he deadpans, drawing his arms up to stretch. "I'm _sure,_ sure, Loserkawa."

There's this little huff of mock offense that parts Tooru's lips, then, but he shakes it off as he falls into a stretch of his own. Hajime watches ( not _stares,_ there's a difference ), and pauses only to nudge the other into a better position.

Tooru grins up at him, brightly. "We're going to do great," he says.

Wrinkling his nose, Hajime turns away and changes positions himself. "I know."

"You're going to do wonderfully," the other continues. "You always do."

"Shut up."

"I mean it," Tooru says.

He feels the blood pooling in his cheeks, in the tips of his ears, and wonders if he can pass it off as annoyance-- what else could it be, anyway? Wonders if he can will it away through the burn of his muscles as he falls into a lunge.

"Shut up," he repeats, mildly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this work done? no  
> will i keep going? maybe! i kinda like it  
> let me know what you think, yeah?

They win, and win, and win ( and lose, here and there, but they make due anyway ), but Tooru wants more, and more, and more but Hajime can't figure out for the life of him what he's running from.

"One more," Tooru huffs.

He can almost feel the strain in his setter's muscles, the sting of his palms, the ache of his limbs. He's damp with sweat, his jaw is clenched, and he's walking it off like water rolls off a duck's back when his feet hit the floor again, but something about his gait leaves Hajime's fingers twitching.

"One more," he says again.

They've done this before, for a different reason entirely-- the sidelong glances of Issei and Takahiro as they part tell him he's let this gone on far longer than he should've. Tooru will serve until the ball pops to prove a point to himself. Until the flesh peels from the palm of his hand.

Hajime swipes a ball off the floor and chucks it; no grace in his movement, just a growl tearing from his throat, and it startles Tooru so bad that he fumbles his ball and turns, and then it hits him. The ball, that is. Maybe he put a little too much force behind it-- maybe he doesn't know his own strength. It collides with Tooru's left shoulder and the setter hisses and stumbles back in the same breath.

Maybe there's something wrong with him. Every time he catches his gaze he feels like his blood is burning.

"We're done, Oikawa," he barks. "Shower."

Eyes wide and lips parted, one hand clutching his shoulder, Tooru nods.

And, three practices later, Tooru sprains his knee.

It happens in slow motion-- or feels like it does, anyway. He jumps. He connects-- his brows furrow, and his mouth forms a firm line, and it's how he know the hit is solid. The ball cuts through the air like a hot knife through butter, hits the floor on the other end of the net with a sound that would set the ears of anyone near it ringing. He lands-- he blinks and his brow unfurls, his hair weighs bounces and then settles back into place, he makes a face, something twisted like discomfort--

He doesn't land. He crumples.


	3. Chapter 3

Outwardly, Tooru dons a cool mask of indifference; features carefully blank besides the lilt of his head in Hajime's direction. His lips part as his gaze slips to the gymnasium floor.

"I think--"

"Well--" and Hajime almost balks at the break in his own voice, clenches and unclenches his fist in his lap. Wets his dry lips and prays to whatever god out there that Tooru won't bring it up to him later. "Stop. Stop thinking, Shittykawa."

The setter's gaze flickers to him. "Iwa-chan."

"Stupidkawa."

" _Iwa_ \--"

" _Crappy_ kawa!" He seethes. "Be quiet."

Tooru frowns-- not outright, just a slight downturn of the corner of his mouth, but it's enough to make him feel stupid ( trashy, _wrong,_ why can't he just be nice sometimes? ) anyway, so he turns his gaze out toward the empty gym. The silence isn't what he'd thought it would be. It doesn't bleed the tension from his shoulders, or settle his thoughts.

Calloused fingers press onto his forearm, followed by a palm gliding over the skin. It settles; the tips of Tooru's fingers rest almost feather light against his wrist.

"We're okay," he says. "Aren't we, Iwa-chan?"

Hajime almost bristles. "That's a stupid question," he huffs. "Of course we're okay."

Tooru's hand slips a little further, fingers gliding against the base of his palm like he's debating slotting them together, then pulls back to rest more firmly against his arm.

_"_ _I hate boys like you. Pretty boys who get all the girls."_

"Okay," he says. "Good. Come home tonight, there's this new documentary I found--"

_Come home. Come home. Come home._

"About aliens?" The ace sighs.

Tooru chuckles, almost abashed, and he can picture the dip of his head and flop of his hair. "Yes. Yeah. Or, y'know, we could watch Star Wars, or Godzilla, or--"

"Be quiet," Hajime berates. "We'll watch your crappy documentary."

"Okay," Tooru breathes. "Alright."

"Okay."

"My girlfriend broke up with me."

"Oka--" Hajime's head snaps to the side, and he's almost positive his eyes are as wide as Tooru's when he asks, " _What?_ "

"My girlfriend broke up with me," he repeats, and Hajime watches, bewildered, as a small smile overcomes his friend's features. "A few days ago. And-- and I'm fine. I didn't--" Tooru shakes his head a little, hair flopping about. "I didn't even really care, didn't even cry, I just-- _Girls_ , y'know?"

He doesn't. He's never even _had_ a girlfriend. There was never a good time-- or if there ever was, there was never the right girl.

Tooru continues a little breathlessly, with the faintest pink dusting his cheeks. "They're so overrated."

"Okay," Hajime blurts-- but he supposes it doesn't matter that it was probably the wrong thing to say, because Tooru squeezes his forearm and laughs. Loud and unabashed, head thrown back and clutching his stomach, and he has half a mind to reach out because he looks like he might tip over the damn bench if he keeps it up.

**Author's Note:**

> comments keep me goin', honestly. tell me what you think! and whether you think i should keep going!


End file.
